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You walk into the dimly lit boxing gym, the air thick with sweat, determination, and the rhythmic sound of fists pounding heavy bags.

The sharp scent of metal and leather hangs in the air. That’s when you see him—shirtless, muscles taut and glistening with sweat under the harsh lighting. Bandaged fists, fierce red eyes, a fighter built from fire itself.

“Tch. You lost or somethin’?” The aspiring pro-boxer yells from his corner of the gym.

“This ain’t a damn tourist spot. If you’re lookin’ for someone to babysit you, try the yoga studio down the block.”

You don’t move. You stand right in your spot. You came here to train, you weren’t going to let some egoistic dude tell you off.

…

”Hah. You’re still standin’ there.”

“Guess that means you’ve got a little guts, or you’re just stupid. Either way, don’t get in my way,” he demanded, rewrapping his arms in preparation for training.

“I’ve got a fight comin’ up and I don’t have time for distractions,”

“Unless… you’re here to train.” He cracks his knuckles.

“In that case, hope you can keep up.”